


A Long Way Home

by thedevilchicken



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death Fix, Friends to Lovers, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-03-29 10:33:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19018126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Alexios hasn't known many Spartans and none like Brasidas. As far as he can tell, this is the strangest friendship that he's ever had.





	A Long Way Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



"You have something of mine," Brasidas said. 

He was standing in the doorway of Alexios' childhood home, now home again though that still felt strange; he was smiling but he had the fingers of one hand tucked around the worn old wooden frame almost like he expected a fight to keep the door from closing. Alexios supposed he understood that, recent behaviour taken into account, but Brasidas didn't look like he'd be in any state for a fight even if one did manage to find him. He looked like he had one foot planted shakily on either side of the Styx and he wasn't sure which way he'd fall if the wind turned, despite the cautious smile tugging at his mouth. 

Brasidas wasn't well. He was mending from the injury he'd taken at Amphipolis, albeit slowly, but he still wasn't _well_ ; Alexios wouldn't have needed to know the details of what had happened even half as well as he did in order to see that. Before Alexios' _mater_ had enlisted a grumbling Kassandra and headed away to help a friend in need on Naxos, she'd at least reported that much about Brasidas' condition back to him, frowning though she'd been at the time. She hadn't understood the situation and Alexios hadn't done much to explain it, but then again she'd somehow held onto so much more of her optimism over the years than Alexios had - as a result, he really hadn't expected her to understand. Or perhaps it had less to do with optimism and more with the relief she felt at having her daughter back, regardless of all the things they knew Kassandra had done.

"Are you going to invite me in or should I just stand here?" Brasidas asked. 

Alexios' brow furrowed. "I think you might _fall_ in if I don't," he replied, which seemed like a fair assessment of the situation based on how truly fucking dreadful Brasidas looked. Even aside from the scar that Alexios was studiously avoiding looking at, his face looked drawn - Alexios was standing close enough that he could see the deepened wrinkles at the corners of Brasidas' eyes and the pallid, washed-out tint to his usually tanned skin. "Weren't you walking with a stick the last time I saw you?"

Brasidas laughed, and he shrugged stiffly to concede the point. "I was," he admitted. "It made me feel like a very old man, but I suppose we're all getting older." He leaned a little more heavily against the door frame, his whole forearm pressing there and not just his hand, not quite perilous but on his way to it. He glanced at his hand as he rubbed at the rough wood. "I saw you leaving. I'd hoped we'd talk."

He didn't say the words _I know you've been avoiding me_ but the look on his face said it for him, very loud and very clear, like Ikaros when he wanted feeding. It would have been difficult to deny something that Brasidas hadn't actually said out loud but even if he'd gone ahead and said it, Alexios couldn't have denied it - the fact was, he _had_ been avoiding him. 

Brasidas had returned to Sparta thirteen days before that, after sixty or so days in Makedonia and several more at sea between the two, though Alexios had honestly lost count of how much time had passed since the battle in Amphipolis by the time he arrived. He'd hung back as other Spartans welcomed their conquering hero home. He hadn't joined the hordes of well-meaning well-wishers lingering outside Brasidas' door whenever he'd happened to be passing, not that he'd ever just happened to be passing. When he'd spotted him sitting in the agora, he'd vanished swift as Hermes ever could have. Three days ago, when he'd seen him walking with a stick, leaning on it heavily, Brasidas had raised a hand to greet him, but Alexios just gave him a tight smile in return as he rather rapidly strode away. He hadn't even made some kind of feeble excuse about having things to do or places to be, mercenary contracts, family business - he'd have actually had to be close enough to say the words for that to work because for all the many things he was, Brasidas definitely _wasn't_ the Pythia. His near-death experience probably hadn't bestowed on him the gift of prophecy or the ability to read minds. Not that Alexios would have known, given how far away he'd been staying.

He'd been avoiding him; that much would have been obvious to anyone with eyes, and to most people without. He hated it, but the alternative had seemed like a worse option.

The fact was, his little sister had very nearly killed Brasidas at Amphipolis. Alexios was still trying to forgive her for that, and he supposed one day he might even manage it, if he put the requisite effort in. She hadn't had all the facts. She'd been controlled by the Cult for a very long time and they'd lied to her incessantly. He believed it wasn't her fault, at least not entirely. He believed she could change, if her family showed her how. He wanted to forgive her.

But that didn't mean he expected Brasidas to forgive _him_. Except he knew he would, even if he didn't deserve it. 

He'd decided he wouldn't give him the chance. He wasn't completely sure he could bear it.

\---

Once upon a time, Alexios might have argued that his friendship with Brasidas had started out no differently than any other between good, honest, law-abiding Spartan men; they'd worked together, fought together, saved each other's lives, and all other things had progressed from that. 

He knew many Spartan men were close with their brothers-in-arms, a lot like family, or presumably they wouldn't have raised such hefty bounties every time he took it on himself to relieve one of their life. It shouldn't have come as a complete surprise that Alexios - who had very rarely fought with anyone on his side at all, let alone someone so confident and so capable and so bafflingly willing to trust his skills roughly thirty seconds after they'd met - had felt a pang of something not terribly familiar for the smiling Spartan stranger who'd appeared as if from nowhere in that burning Korinthian warehouse. It made sense that he'd felt a disconcerting kind of warmth start to grow as they'd worked together, too, day after day and night after night. Brasidas was a good man who clearly trusted him, though why that was remained a mystery. Alexios found he trusted him in return, and he'd never done that easily.

On a few nights, Brasidas invited Alexios to eat with him and the band of Spartan soldiers under his command. Alexios said no as graciously and not-suspiciously as he could that first time, because he had the notion in his head that Brasidas had asked him out of a general sense of politeness toward useful allies; by the next time, he'd realised Brasidas wasn't asking to be polite because _politeness_ really wasn't a reason he did anything in life: he did things for duty, yes, or because it was The Spartan Way, or just because he wanted to, but not out of _politeness_. Alexios said no again, because he was tied up that night with disposing of a group of local bandits for a surprisingly bloodthirsty hetaera, but he did at least give it his serious consideration before he went out into the night to slit men's throats for not enough drachmae. He did at least turn the offer down more reluctantly.

The third time, he'd taken on a job killing wolves for a local farmer and apparently decided that twilight moving into night was the best time to start. He joined them later on, though, sometime past dark, when the wolves were dead. He arrived as what smelled like good food was giving way to drink, though it seemed like they were drinking with surprising moderation for a company of soldiers - perhaps because they knew how precarious their position really was, garrisoned there in their small camp just inside Korinth's walls. They weren't particularly inconspicuous and the Monger wasn't particularly averse to murdering men in their beds.

Brasidas grinned as he spotted him across the dimly-lit hall and he raised a hand to wave him over. He poured a cup of wine for Alexios rather than let him do it himself - he was their guest after all, he said - and made a space for him to sit down next to him, though it wasn't exactly a large space because there were no large spaces. They were elbow to elbow and thigh to slightly overly warm thigh at the long table in the rowdy hall that smelled like cooked meat and watered wine and dirt and metal, until Brasidas stood and quarter-turned and straddled the bench to make a little more room for Alexios' shoulder. The only problem was, that little manoeuvre left Brasidas' thighs spread wide and his tunic hitched up distractingly high and although Alexios told himself the reaction he had to that was understandable, it hit him unexpectedly. It twisted at his insides and he absolutely couldn't blame it on the wine.

Maybe Brasidas was older than he was, but he was clearly - _clearly_ \- in excellent Spartan shape, and Alexios had found himself in the middle of a frustrating dry spell, extremely frustrating given you couldn't spit in Korinth and miss a prostitute or a worshipper of Aphrodite. It wasn't the first time he'd noticed Brasidas' height and bulk, and the set of his shoulders, and the muscles in his thighs, but with his armour off, sitting there in just a Spartan-red tunic with a belt tied around his waist, Alexios was so distracted he could almost have forgotten that he was sitting there unarmed, having been strongly encouraged to leave his weapons at the door. He could almost have pretended that the heat creeping into his cheeks was just the wine after all, warming him up after a chilly night out hunting things intent on biting off his sword hand, and not the sudden urge to wrap Brasidas' braid around his palm and suck a bruise into his neck. He'd never had a Spartan and maybe he wasn't exactly working his way down a checklist but he was definitely intrigued. You heard so many things about them, even back on Kephallonia.

"You look flushed," Brasidas said, giving Alexios' shoulder a squeeze. "We should get some air." 

He didn't wait for a response before leaving the table, but Alexios followed him anyway. He grabbed his spear by the door and flipped it in the air over and over as they strolled up the steps and onto the high city wall, the blade catching the moonlight before he caught it cleanly by the leather-wrapped hilt time after time. Brasidas looked amused by that, though the sentries nearby seemed a bit more nervous. Having a misthios over for dinner with their commanding officer would do that to them, he supposed - for all they knew, he was actually there to kill him and all the work they'd done thus far had been an extremely cunning if extremely inefficient ruse. He'd have liked to have told them he didn't have that much cunning in him or he'd have been a politician, or that much patience or he'd have been a fisherman, but he had a feeling they'd rather put a spearpoint through his chest than listen. For all he knew, stabbing a Spartan commander was what passed for politics in Sparta. And Spartiates definitely weren't career fishermen.

"Do you ever miss?" Brasidas asked. 

Alexios caught the spear again then turned to lean back against the wall in front of them. He slapped the flat of the spearhead against one shin, pointing down at his feet.

"Well, I still have all my toes," he said, rocking back on his sandal heels to lift his toes and demonstrate. He hefted the spear back into its sheath on his back and held out both his hands, palms up. "It doesn't look like I've chopped off any fingers. Not my own, at least."

Brasidas took both Alexios' hands in his own and inspected them with close, heavily exaggerated scrutiny, turning them this way and that, peering first at one and then the other. He rubbed Alexios' palms with his thumbs then glanced up at his face again.

"Either you're very lucky or you're very skilled," Brasidas said. 

"Aren't you going to tell me I must have been blessed by the gods?"

"Do people tell you that often?"

Alexios grimaced. "Honestly, more often than you'd probably imagine."

Brasidas smiled, looking mostly amused but there was mischief at the edges. He tilted up his chin, teasingly defiant, and squeezed Alexios' hands. 

"I can imagine a great many things, _misthios_ ," he said, with a twinkle in his eye that Alexios was at least moderately sure he hadn't imagined. 

He still had Alexios' hands in his. Alexios could feel his calloused fingertips resting at his knuckles and his thumbs pressing firmly to his palms. They were looking each other straight in the eye, absolutely unflinchingly, by the light of the nearly full moon, as a knot of desire started to twist in Alexios' belly. And there was a moment then when it occurred to him that under any normal circumstances, he'd have stepped in even closer than he was already; he'd have slid one hand to the back of Brasidas' neck to make his intentions clear and then asked him what else he might be imagining. He'd have asked, jokingly but not without intent to it, if that might involve the two of them and Brasidas finding out exactly how _blessed_ he might really be. But, uncharacteristically, he hesitated. 

There was apparently something different about the situation at hand and he didn't really know exactly what that was or why because Brasidas still hadn't let go and ordinarily that would have meant something very clear and nigh on definite. Maybe it wasn't a totally sure bet that Brasidas would be interested, but usually a bit of risk wouldn't have stopped him; he could usually accept rejection with a mostly cheerful smile and then move on, because life was just too short for that kind of regret. But Brasidas was perhaps the most experienced military commander Alexios had ever worked with, and he was definitely the best of them by far, and while Alexios had had lovers older than Brasidas was... well, seducing honoured Spartan generals wasn't exactly his speciality. Especially not ones he liked and respected and wanted to like and respect him, too. Besides, he didn't even know if doing that - kissing him - in front of the sentries and anyone else who happened to take a look in their direction would have been permitted under the mysterious tenets of Spartan etiquette. From what he knew about Spartans, that sort of thing wasn't actually permitted between two full-grown men at all. Probably, he was reading too much into Brasidas' probably casual actions. The truth was, for all he technically was one, he found Spartans very hard to read.

So Alexios didn't move and he didn't speak and eventually that moment he would have usually made so much of passed him by. Brasidas let go of his hands and took a half step backwards. Alexios would have preferred it if he hadn't - it could have been fun to go to bed with him, or even just get into a quick fumble up against the wall - but he supposed not fucking things up before they got the job done was probably the safest bet. After all, it wasn't like his relationships usually lasted much longer than a night. Not even when he actually liked who he was spending that night with.

"It's late," Alexios said. "I should go. I haven't even told the farmer the wolves are dead."

"And you do still have wolves' blood under your fingernails," Brasidas replied, gesturing. "Maybe you should take care of that, too. I don't think it added much to the wine."

"I'm not sure that's all wolf," Alexios admitted. He grimaced at his hands. "I promise I'll take a bath next time."

"Next time?" Brasidas raised his brows and crossed his arms over his chest pseudo-sternly, but Alexios could see a not particularly faint glint of amusement in his eyes. He pulled himself up into a mock-military stance in response to that, only half trying to avoid a smile as he tucked his hands behind his back.

"Assuming I'm invited, general," he said.

Brasidas held his gaze for a second, not even close to how he usually looked at the soldiers he commanded, then he broke into another broad smile. "You're invited," he said, and clapped Alexios on the shoulder. "Of course you're invited. Come tomorrow. Try not to be so late, I promise the food's not bad enough that you need to hunt every wolf in Korinthia to avoid it."

The following evening, Alexios arrived in time for dinner. He'd rented a room above a semi-reputable tavern in a semi-reputable part of town just so he could have them bring him a big bowl of hot water to scrub his still rather bloody hands in, but it hadn't seemed like enough to stop there when he'd promised Brasidas a bath. In the end, he'd taken himself to the public bathhouse to try to soak some of the grime away, though it felt like an extravagance too far when he could have just turned up bloody like he had the night before. None of the rest of the soldiers had cared if he looked more like a dusty, bloody misthios than a neat and tidy Spartan soldier, because he _was_ a misthios and not a Spartan soldier and they weren't about to forget that just because he'd had a bath. Chances were even Brasidas didn't really care, but he still turned up at the Spartan camp with his skin feeling tender from the recent thorough scrubbing and his hair still damp and clinging to his neck. 

When he was shown into the commander's room by a surly giant of a guard, Brasidas took a moment away from his maps to find a cloth for Alexios to dry his hair and neck and shoulders with. But before he handed it over, he covered his hand with the cloth and rubbed it over Alexios' damp throat. It rasped against his three-day beard and bathhouse-sensitive skin and made him shiver. 

"I know you said you'd take a bath, but I didn't expect you'd still be dripping with it," Brasidas said, teasing, as he pressed the cloth into Alexios' hands. 

"You know, there's just no pleasing some people," Alexios mock-grumbled in reply, and Brasidas smiled, and so did he. But he was thinking about all the things he might have done instead to please him. The list was already surprisingly lengthy before he managed to make himself stop.

They ate together there instead of with Brasidas' men, sitting opposite each other across Brasidas' work table with the maps and reports and little figures that stood in place of troops all pushed aside to make room for their plates. They talked a little about Myrrine and Nikolaos, and what Brasidas could remember about the day Alexios and his sister had sailed over the cliff from Mount Taygetos. They talked a little about Brasidas' career and how he'd come to be assigned to Korinth, and Alexios' life on Kephallonia. Conversation was easy and enjoyable despite the veritable sea of memories it stirred up. Brasidas was engaging and he also seemed to be engaged and Alexios wondered if that was some sort of sign of comradeship. He'd never really had a comrade before, he thought, unless Markos counted, or Barnabas, or the crew of the _Adrestia_. Looking back, he knows they always counted, so he should have known that the thing going on with Brasidas was something else. On his part, at the very least.

The problem was, if it was comradeship, he didn't want to ruin it with a one-night tumble and an awkward morning after, all strained smiles and _we should really do this again sometime_ while they put their clothes back on. Not even if he really did want to push him up face-first against the nearest wall, drag him down onto his knees and have him there just like that, with Brasidas bracing himself against the stones. Brasidas seemed like the type who wouldn't mind things getting a bit rough and as they talked, and they drank, Alexios could imagine his own skin marked with bruises shaped like Brasidas' hands. And his mouth, and his teeth, and the point of his spear. Then again, maybe Brasidas didn't fuck men at all. Maybe Spartans in general didn't, the way he'd heard they didn't. He had no idea about them and as much as asking him about it might have got right to the point, he couldn't find a way to break into serious conversation about the war to ask him, _so, I was wondering...would you like to sleep with me?_

When they'd drained the wine, Alexios stood to leave. He was reluctant, but it was late and if he wasn't going to suggest he stay the night and see what the reaction was, he needed to get back to his rented room.

"It has to be soon," Brasidas said, and Alexios knew he was talking about the Monger. As much as he'd hoped there'd be more time, Brasidas was right.

"I know," he replied, and he turned to retrieve his weapons from where he'd left them, leaning casually against the wall just inside the door. "Tomorrow?"

" I think the day after." 

Alexios nodded tightly. "I understand," he said. "I'll be ready." And when he left, as he was walking away from the camp, he knew he'd missed his chance completely. Not that he was absolutely sure he'd ever had a chance at all. He wasn't even fifty percent sure.

The Monger's death went to plan, though - to Brasidas' plan, at least, if not Anthousa's, meaning he went without fanfare though Alexios had to admit he could see the appeal of ending him in public. Still, when their business with the Monger was concluded, after Anthousa had given Alexios the information she had about his _mater_ but before Brasidas and his men left Korinth, they said a brief goodbye. They embraced by Anthousa's door once they'd left her, breastplate bumping against breastplate as they clapped each other on the back. Brasidas' beard tickled Alexios' jaw. He felt Brasidas' spear-callused fingers pressing warmly at the nape of his neck, under the back of his hair. He liked how that felt.

Then Brasidas kissed him on the mouth. It was brief and sudden and when he stepped back, leaving Alexios surprised but not exactly unpleasantly before he had any time at all to muster a reaction, Brasidas smiled and he laughed and he reached out to pat Alexios' cheek. 

"I hope we meet again, Eagle Bearer," he said, warmly, and all Alexios could think to say, as he contemplated the fact he'd just been kissed by this man of all possible men in Korinth, was a rather meek, "Me, too." It seemed desperately inadequate, given how much it turned out he liked and respected him. He supposes that's why he's a misthios, not a poet. 

Brasidas' smile brightened with that response, though, and he squeezed Alexios' arms with both his hands before he turned to leave. Alexios watched him go, still uncharacteristically lacking words, or at least the sort he could use in polite company. Then, as he made his way back to the _Adrestia_ after that, he wondered if there was something else he should have done instead of talking since words had been so glaringly absent. In the end, though, he decided that must just be one of the many things he'd forgotten about Sparta. After all, judging by the things he knew about Spartans, their men didn't tend to do... _that_ , at least not with other men, not past a certain age. And, judging by what his men said - and Alexios knew that a commander's men often made the best kind of judges, Brasidas was a very fine Spartan indeed. 

As he made camp for the night at the edge of a wood on his way to the coast where the ship was probably still moored, he told himself that the heat he felt when he thought about Brasidas, about his hands on his skin and his mouth against his, was just his Kephallonian dirty mind at work. When he took on one last job inland to get the business with Anthousa and the Monger and the Cult or Kosmos out of his head, he told himself that at its base it was all just fond memories of that first satisfying fight. When he got back to the ship, strode aboard and ordered them to sea, even Barnabas agreed that the kiss was probably just Spartans being Spartans. 

"That's the thing with Spartiates," Barnabas said, as he was sending the crew out for salvage. "They have so many strange traditions...who can say what they'll do next? Maybe he was asking you for friendship. Maybe he was asking you for _companionship_. Or maybe he was asking you where to find the nearest blacksmith - you'll likely never know!" And maybe that didn't make _complete_ sense, sort of like he'd just had a long conversation with Sokrates, but somehow it also did make sense. Spartans were strange. Really, really strange. 

But he'd probably never see him again anyway, and there were other things that needed his attention. Like finding his _mater_ , for instance.

He'd forget about the deeply confusing Brasidas of Sparta.

\---

Of course, he didn't forget. 

He thought about him on occasion, every now and then. He turned up in his dreams once or twice, just long enough to bring it all back. He heard his name in Phokis, while he was at Kirrha, but he couldn't find a very good reason to stop by the Spartan naval camp to say hello. He wasn't sure he'd ever see him again, but he didn't forget. 

He hadn't expected to see him so he was surprised - and pleased, actually very pleased - when they met again in Sparta. It had been two full years since Korinth and Alexios had met his _pater_ and found his _mater_ , and when Brasidas strode over to join him and Myrrine, he didn't seem to have changed at all. He was even wearing the same armour. It still suited him, and suddenly Korinth felt like yesterday. 

He expected a smile and a cordial greeting, maybe a friendly slap on the shoulder if Brasidas remembered their time in Korinthia even half as fondly as he did, but Brasidas came close and then surprised him again by coming even closer. He slipped one hand to the back of Alexios' neck and bent their heads together, resting forehead against forehead with his warm palm underneath the strands of Alexios' hair. Alexios found himself tugging lightly on the end of Brasidas' braid with a warm feeling spreading through his chest and cheeks, and Brasidas chuckled as he stepped away just far enough to shake him bracingly by the shoulders. The look on his face said he couldn't quite believe they were both standing there together on Spartan soil any more than Alexios could. And Myrrine didn't seem surprised by their behaviour, so Alexios tried not to seem like he was, either. Perhaps that was just how Spartan men usually greeted each other - they'd know better than he would.

"I thought you'd have found some way to get yourself killed by now, _misthios_ ," Brasidas said, still grasping his shoulders tightly. "I'm glad to see I was wrong." 

"Not as glad as I am," Alexios replied, amused, and pleased, and pleasantly warm. "Do you think so little of my skills, Spartan? I thought they might have impressed you."

Brasidas smiled. He patted his cheek. "It's not your skills that concern me," he said. He let his fingertips brush Alexios' jaw, from the lobe of his ear right down to his chin, as he pulled his hand away. Alexios could hear the rasp of fingers against stubble. It made his skin tingle warmly. "Just the target you've painted on your back." 

Myrrine excused herself and slipped away to run a number of vague and unspecified errands and Brasidas spent the afternoon reintroducing Alexios to the main features and landmarks of the city he'd grown up in; he remembered parts here and there, streets, the occasional statue, but there were gaps in his memory and other parts had changed quite a lot while he'd been gone. He wished it felt more like home, but it was really mostly like going back to any other place he hadn't been to for a while. By that point, he had a feeling even returning to Kephallonia would feel sort of strange. Then they parted ways in the evening, Brasidas to his syssitia and Alexios to the rooms his mother had somehow found for them to stay in temporarily. Sparta didn't seem to be particularly friendly to outsiders; Alexios was actually surprised they hadn't had to settle for a makeshift camp outside the city walls, sleeping in watches around a fire to ward off wolves. It made a nice change.

The next day, he and Brasidas met at the statue of Leonidas and sat side by side at Alexios' grandfather's feet to talk about the things they'd done and the places they'd been since they'd last seen each other back in Korinth. It had been years and Alexios had stories to tell, about hunting treasure for the pirate queen of Keos, the Battle of One Hundred Hands, and how he'd found his _mater_ after all those years, leading Naxos. He left out the sphinx; he wasn't particularly sure he even believed that one himself.

"You know, my stories really aren't as entertaining as yours," Brasidas said. He nudged him with his shoulder. "Unless you count the time I met the mighty Eagle Bearer." 

"That sounds like a real crowd-pleaser," Alexios replied. He glanced at him sidelong and shuffled slightly, leaning forward with his elbows to his knees and his head turned to look at him. Brasidas did the same, so close their bare thighs and elbows brushed together. "So, is he everything they say he is?"

Brasidas tilted his head as he looked at him. He was trying and failing to hide a smile when he said, "That depends, I suppose. What do they say he is?"

"Oh, you know." Alexios shrugged. "Charming. Attractive. The best mercenary in all of Greece."

"A perfect description. Truthfully, I don't know how I resisted him." Brasidas snorted. He sat up straight and clapped one hand to Alexios' thigh. "And he's modest, too," he said. "Very, very modest." 

Alexios laughed and the conversation moved on, but Brasidas' palm lingered warmly at his thigh, between his knee and the hem of his tunic. Alexios didn't question it, though he'd have liked to; mostly, he just didn't want to make him move away. It turned out the two years since their last meeting really hadn't dulled Alexios' attraction to him at all, and he'd missed his conversation.

The next day, Brasidas had business with the ephors. When Alexios noticed him emerging after the meeting, that might conceivably have been the moment that he understood Brasidas really wasn't just another Spartan soldier. From what he saw, he was a highly respected one. He was a trusted one, and they took his opinion seriously, and he looked serious with them, more serious than he'd ever looked around Alexios. Alexios would have bet that no one there could understand why he was wasting so much time hanging around with a misthios, even if that misthios had a solid reputation for getting the job done no matter what the job was, and had turned out to be the grandson of a genuine Spartan hero. 

Honestly, he wondered about it himself as he watched him, but he supposed those weeks when they'd worked together back in Korinth might have made them friends. The problem was, he had to admit friendship in general still didn't make much sense to him, as fond as he was of Barnabas and Herodotos and Markos and Phoibe. All he could say for sure was he wished he'd been the one over there talking to Brasidas and not watching like a stranger from across the square.

The next day, they rode out to the training grounds. Brasidas had his spear and shield with him, slung over his back, which could only mean one thing - it wasn't a fear of wolves or bandits they might meet along the way, Alexios knew that, but he politely ignored the obvious. 

"I haven't trained in days," Brasidas admitted, not entirely guiltily, once they'd dismounted and tethered their horses. Not that Phobos usually required a tether, but he took it well enough despite that. They were standing by a clear patch of dusty, packed-down earth where a number of Spartan soldiers were training, an area that seemed to have been pounded into the ground by many feet over the course of many days rather than cleared in advance. 

Brasidas gestured to a free space at the outside edge, apart from the others. "So, can I tempt you?" he asked.

Alexios pulled his spear from his back and gave an exaggerated stretch. "You invited me here and I agreed to come, and you still think you need to ask that?" he replied.

"Well, catching you off guard with a surprise attack did seem attractive," Brasidas said, drumming his fingers against the shaft of his own spear. He had one end of it resting on the dirt at his feet and the long wooden shaft resting against his breastplate, up by one shoulder. "Attractive, but probably hazardous to my health."

Alexios snorted. "In my experience, some of the best things are," he said, and Brasidas laughed and nodded in agreement as he started to stretch, too. 

Soon enough, they drew their weapons. It could have been over much more quickly and Brasidas seemed to understand that, but Alexios really didn't have any particular desire to hurry. They circled each other, slowly, Brasidas half hidden behind his shield but they both knew a shield wouldn't hold him back if he chose to attack - he'd seen him shatter sturdier shields than his in combat. But the point of his spear clashed with Brasidas' and his sword clashed with his shield and Brasidas swept at Alexios' legs but he hopped over it and Brasidas laughed as Alexios barged him with his shoulder and knocked him sprawling on the ground. Alexios reached out a hand to help him up and almost expected to be pulled down except he wasn't; Brasidas clasped him by the wrist and let him pull him up to his feet, and he stood there, close to him, _very_ close. 

Alexios could see the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes and the faint hint of grey starting to grow into his hair and the scar at his cheek that he had a sudden urge to run his thumb across. He could see the creases in his lips and it would have been so easy to lean in, just a little closer, and press his own against them. But the moment passed, as it had before, and they fought again. And again, till Brasidas was breathless and Alexios was almost there. To their credit, the people around them had only briefly stopped to watch. At least Alexios didn't notice if they did more than that. 

Brasidas rubbed at his shoulder as they left the field, circled his arm and winced. He continued as they rode back into the city, his horse's reins in one hand and the other one clenched as he moved his arm uncomfortably. 

"You know, I could help with that," Alexios said. Brasidas raised his brows and Alexios gestured at him. "Your shoulder. It's bothering you. Let me take a look." 

Brasidas said something about not knowing he was a priest of Asklepios as well as a mercenary but they stopped and hopped down from their horses by the side of the road. It was a bright day, warm but not hot even though it had to be nearing noon, and Brasidas sat himself down cross-legged on the grass as Alexios knelt down behind him. Brasidas removed his bracers and his breastplate. He shuffled to pull his tunic off over his head, which he hadn't actually asked him to do although he couldn't say he objected, and then Alexios put his hands on him. He felt his way to the problem spot and applied firm pressure, rubbing deep and slow with both his thumbs.

"You're very good at that," Brasidas said. "Where did you learn?"

Alexios chuckled lowly. "From a group of grateful hetaerae on Kephallonia," he replied. "I helped them chase away some... _unwanted attention_. They couldn't spare any drachmae, so they taught me a few things instead."

Brasidas glanced back over his shoulder, one brow raised. His smile was teasing. "Hetaerae, you say?"

Alexios took Brasidas' head in his hands and turned it to make him face forward again, then flicked his braid forward over his shoulder. It hit him across the face and Brasidas laughed. 

"Are you trying to ask if I've had _clients_ , Brasidas?" Alexios said, as he went back to his shoulders and dug in with his thumbs again. "Like hetaerae do? Are you asking if men have paid me for my... _talents_?"

Brasidas hummed lowly as he considered this, then he said, "Hmm, perhaps."

"I'm a misthios. I've done a lot of things for money." He nudged Brasidas in the back with the heel of one hand and snorted in amusement. "But not that. Now lie down. Face down."

Brasidas did as he was told and Alexios retrieved a small jar of oil from one of Phobos' saddlebags that he warmed on his hands as he moved to straddle the back of Brasidas' thighs. He ran his oiled palms over Brasidas' back. He pressed, finding knots of tension that he smoothed out slowly and firmly as they fell silent. Then he went up on one knee to make a little extra room. 

"Turn over."

Brasidas paused, took an audible breath, and then turned. As he turned, Alexios understood why he'd paused; he was clearly hard under his loincloth. Alexios should perhaps have stopped or laughed it off but he put more oil on his hands, then put his hands on Brasidas' chest, stoically ignoring the extremely obvious. And when he was done, Brasidas stretched then went up on his knees right in front of him. He reached one hand to the hem of Alexios' tunic and slipped it underneath; Alexios hadn't realised how hard he was himself until Brasidas squeezed him over his loincloth and made him shiver with it. 

"This might be difficult if you don't undress," Brasidas said, brightly, as he pulled his hand back and untied his own loincloth. Once uncovered, his cock jutted up from between his thighs, thick and hard and ridiculously tempting. Alexios would've liked to have pushed him down onto his back and put his mouth on him. He'd've liked to have pushed him back onto the grass and stretched out there on top of him, and rubbed against him till they both came in a slick-sticky mess, all massage oil and come with blades of grass stuck to them for good measure. Instead, he pulled off his tunic and he untied his loincloth and he waited to see what Brasidas would do. 

What Brasidas did was take the oil and slick one hand and take Alexios' wrists to do the same for him like there was no question at all what they'd be doing next. He wrapped his oiled hand around Alexios' cock, so Alexios did the same to him. Brasidas braced himself with his free hand at Alexios' shoulder, so Alexios did likewise, and he stroked so Alexios stroked, too. 

"That feels wonderful," Brasidas said, as Alexios circled the tip of his cock with the pad of his thumb then stroked him, slowly, pushing just the head through the ring he'd made with his fingers and thumb. He gave Alexios a teasing smile, somehow as much with his eyes as with his mouth, which seemed like a special skill he had. "Did the hetaerae teach you this, too?" he asked.

Alexios coughed to not exactly stifle a laugh, amused and slightly breathless. "They taught me how to sew and how to braid my hair," he told him. " _This_ \--" He punctuated with a squeeze. "--I learned from...other people."

Brasidas laughed and shuffled closer, till his knees were planted firmly either side of Alexios'. He caught his own cock alongside Alexios' and he stroked the two of them together, slowly, one arm around Alexios' shoulder with his hand pressed between his shoulder blades for support. He could see Brasidas' balls hanging heavily between his spread thighs and he wanted to run his hand down to them, squeeze, trail his fingertips back behind them, maybe wrap his arm around his waist then down to find his hole and push his slick fingers into him. He wanted Brasidas to push against his hand as they stroked each other, but he didn't make a move. They finished like that, warm-faced and breathless, come all over each other's cocks and balls and thighs. Alexios would've liked to have licked Brasidas clean, he realised, but Brasidas stood and wiped himself off on a rag from his saddlebag before he could move a muscle. Just like that, it was done.

They talked on the way back, about arranging to train together again, or go hunting, and they didn't say a word about what had just happened. As they said good night at Brasidas' door, Alexios was still wondering what had just happened, and by the time he'd returned to the place where he and his _mater_ had arranged for them to stay, he was convinced: Spartan men had very strange kinds of friendships. He needed to learn how to deal with this. There were clearly rules about which he was completely clueless.

The only slight issue was he'd started to feel about Brasidas - what he'd started to feel two years before in Korinth - didn't stop at friendship. The issue was it was a friendship he didn't want to ruin. He was going to have to learn to hold back. 

\---

They trained together every day for the rest of that week, while they waited for an audience with the kings. Brasidas was good - he was excellent, experienced, well trained and inventive, but Alexios had a kind of power that Brasidas could have never had, even in his younger days. He supposed he had his bloodline to thank for that, though he wasn't sure he felt particularly thankful. 

After every time, they rode back into the city together. Every time they did, they stopped in that same spot on their way back and Alexios helped Brasidas work out his post-training kinks with a massage that ended...well, probably exactly the way the hetaerae who'd taught him had usually expected, and honestly the way his massages usually had elsewhere, too. The first two times they did it on their knees again, then Brasidas stayed stretched out on his back and they stroked each other with Alexios sitting there astride his thighs. The next time, Brasidas pushed him down and straddled him instead, his face flushed and smiling. Training with Brasidas, and what happened afterwards, was frankly the most fun Alexios had had in years. 

"You know, Spartan soldiers learn to fight _without_ weapons," Brasidas said, the next day, as he pulled himself up off the ground upon which Alexios had so recently deposited him. 

"So you want me to put down my spear and you'll put yours down, too?"

"And your sword."

"And your shield?"

"And your armour."

"And yours?"

"And your tunic."

"And my _tunic_?"

Brasidas was already pulling off his greaves, though, down on one knee, and he didn't seem like he was joking. At least no more than usual. "Haven't you ever heard of _pankration_?"

Alexios sighed dramatically, which just made Brasidas look up and grin at him, and then he did as he'd been told and stripped down to his underwear. It wasn't exactly the first time he'd been half-naked in front of him, after all. 

Even without his spear, Alexios still had an advantage in strength and in speed, but the problem was he was more than usually distracted. Barefoot and stripped down to his loincloth, Brasidas was something to look at; he had broad shoulders and slim hips and hair that trailed down from his chest over his abdomen and underneath his underwear. When he turned away for a moment to make sure his armour and weapons were securely out of the way, resting neatly on his shield, Alexios could see the lean muscles in his back and shoulders and the dimples by the base of his spine. He'd have liked to have stepped up against him, his bare chest to Brasidas' bare back, his mouth to the crook of Brasidas' neck. He'd have liked to have wrapped his arms around his waist, turned him, kissed him, taken his time, or maybe not - he could've rushed through it, too. But he couldn't see how even a Spartan could view that as just _friendly_ behaviour.

He was stronger and faster but thoroughly distracted, and Brasidas pressed that advantage. They wrestled, his hands all over Brasidas' hot skin, till Brasidas pushed him down and pinned him down. His wrists were in Brasidas' hands against the ground above his head, as Brasidas quickly straddled his hips. 

"I don't think for one second that that was your best," Brasidas said. 

"But you're happy to take the win?"

"Of course! It might be the last I have against you."

Alexios laughed, but he didn't struggle and Brasidas made no attempt to move away. He just shifted a little as he knelt there, one knee planted in the dirt either side of Alexios' hips, till he apparently understood something of Alexios' distraction. 

"Oh," he said, looking amused. "You _really_ like fighting." 

There were so many things he might have said then, had it been anyone except Brasidas. _Yes, but there are other things I prefer to do instead_ or _Maybe I just like fighting you_ , but instead he said, "Oh, is that what we were doing? I thought this was the warm-up." Then he gave an almighty twist of his hips and dumped Brasidas onto his back. Brasidas laughed. Alexios rose, held down a hand and helped him up to his feet. Like he had once before, Brasidas stayed close once he was standing, with Alexios' wrist clasped in his hand and a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

"I think we could both use a warm-up," he said, then he turned and wayed away. He put his sandals on quickly and he left the training area and went into the woods and in just his footwear and his loincloth so Alexios followed after him, trying to keep up, to figure out what in Zeus' name he was doing. 

Brasidas pulled him in behind the thick trunk of an old tree, his fingers around his wrist. He pushed him up against it, the bark to his bare back, and before Alexios could say a word, he kissed him. Brasidas pressed his mouth to his, not shy about it, no hesitation to it, just the fingers of one hand threaded into Alexios' hair and the other hand down lower, his palm pressing flat over his still half-hard cock through the fabric wrapped around his hips. Alexios was startled but that didn't mean he didn't kiss him back, underneath the tree's wide-spread branches overhead. 

Alexios would have liked to go down on his knees, no care in the world for the sticks and stones on the earth by the foot of the tree. He would have liked to loose Brasidas' cock and lick him base to tip, run the length of him just lightly against his stubbly cheek and then suck him while he gripped his hips with both hands. He'd have liked to have turned him, pushed him up face-first against the tree and teased the rim of his hole with the tip of his tongue like maybe that would make up for the fact they'd left Alexios' substantially depleted supply of massage oil in a bag hanging from a horse at the far side of the training ground. He'd have liked to have pulled him down onto his knees and spat against his hole to make him just slick enough that he could push inside him, but he didn't. 

They kissed instead, Brasidas' bare chest against Alexios' and Brasidas' clothed cock pushing against his, grinding against him almost maddeningly, making his face feel hot and his pulse start to race. He got both hands to Brasidas' backside and pulled his hips up flush against his and Brasidas took a sharp breath that he laughed out as he came. Alexios frankly didn't last much longer, either, when Brasidas insinuated his hand into his loincloth and stroked him, slow and firm. Neither of them had lasted terribly long, but that didn't seem to matter very much. Especially not when Brasidas sucked on Alexios' bottom lip, gave it a teasing nip with his teeth, then moved from his mouth far enough to speak.

"So, _misthios_ , do you still think you can beat me?" Brasidas said, against his throat, then he pulled back, brows raised, hands on hips. "Best of three?"

"If you think you can take it, old man," Alexios replied, with a smile over a slightly confused frown. 

Then they patted themselves back into place, they went back out to the training field and they fought again. Alexios won, but as they returned to the city he couldn't help but feel it was a lot like losing anyway. 

The next day, they met with the kings; the day after that, he left Sparta.

He had a job to do, but he felt a lot like he might have preferred to stay.

\---

Pankration at the Olympics in Elis was nothing like sparring with Brasidas, and Elis was nothing like Sparta. Even Barnabas' enthusiasm couldn't make Alexios enjoy being there, especially knowing Brasidas and Myrrine would be waiting for him in Arkadia when he'd finished at the games. That was probably why he competed after Testikles' unfortunate demise: not only was he not particularly inclined toward watching other people play sports but he had a different job to do, and limited time to do it. 

He won the tournament and left Elis then met his mother and Brasidas in Arkadia. And maybe working with Brasidas there wasn't quite like Korinth, but he couldn't help but enjoy the situation anyway. He definitely preferred fighting with him than against him. They made an excellent team. 

On their return journey to Sparta, they talked at the campfire at night and dispatched occasional bandits who seemed to think they'd be easy prey even armed to the teeth. They rolled out bedrolls on the grass and slept side by side when neither one had the watch; they slept so close together that Alexios woke one morning, their last morning before Sparta, to find he was sprawled face-down against Brasidas' chest. 

"Good morning," Brasidas said, seeming completely unfazed by their rather unusual physical arrangement. Alexios' hair had come loose from its tie and Brasidas tucked it back behind his ears, out of his eyes. "Your mother rode ahead. There was something she wanted to do before we go to the kings."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"You seemed...peaceful. I don't know that any of us will have much peace again when we reach Sparta."

Alexios had a feeling he should've been angry, but frankly that made a lot of sense. They were about to depose a king, and quite possibly kill him. Except once they returned to the city, and confronted the kings, events unfolded surprisingly well. He and his mother were awarded their citizenship, and Alexios promised Myrrine that he'd bring his sister home to Sparta, too.

The three of them celebrated together, sitting in Brasidas' rather empty home since theirs was technically still waiting for Stentor to return and claim it. But soon, it was time for Brasidas to head to his syssitia, and for Myrrine and Alexios to find themselves a place to stay. 

"You can stay here," Brasidas said, and Myrrine thanked him; Alexios suspected she hadn't enjoyed sleeping on the ground in the woods, no matter how Spartan she may have been. While she was taking their things into the next room, Alexios thanked him, too. And while Myrrine slept, they took chairs outside and talked under the stars, sharing a cup of wine between them. Alexios spilled a little over his chin and Brasidas leaned in to lick it away, his tongue against Alexios' stubble. They looked at each other. Brasidas raised his brows like a challenge and not ten minutes later they were lacking loincloths underneath their tunics and taking heavy breaths against each other's necks. Brasidas pushed him up against the wall by the side of the house, out of sight, in the dark, and they stroked each other breathlessly until they came. It didn't take long. And afterwards they talked again like nothing at all had happened. That wasn't what Alexios wanted at all.

Soon enough, Brasidas was ordered to Korkyra and Alexios took that as his cue to set back out on the ship with Barnabas to hunt down more members of the Cult. Months passed. He tried not to think about Brasidas, and his hands and his mouth and the sound of his voice, the weight of his cock and the taste of his skin after wine in the sun. But, in the end, Alexios returned to Sparta. It just so happened that Brasidas was already there when he arrived, sharpening his spear outside his front door as Alexios passed by. Alexios didn't quite admit he'd passed that way in the hope he'd be there. Brasidas thoughtfully didn't ask.

They talked and sharpened weapons until it was time for Brasidas to make his way to his syssitia. 

"You can stay as long as you like," he told him, then crossed his arms over his chest and said, "You should come with me." 

"Is that allowed?"

"You'd be my guest." 

With the brook-no-refusal way Brasidas looked at him, he didn't question further; he thanked him, and he said goodnight to his mother, and he went along.

The syssitia both was and wasn't exactly what he'd expected. There were maybe forty men in the hall, not that Alexios felt the need to count them, seated around long tables on long benches, with cups of wine and plates of food - it was a lot like the camp in Korinth, just on a larger scale. It was dark outside by the time they arrived so the lamps were lit, and the lamplight made it seem all faintly unreal whenever someone turned to look at him like they wondered what he was doing there. Maybe that was exactly what they were thinking but if so, they managed to keep it neatly to themselves. That was probably because he was sitting right next to Brasidas, and Brasidas was who he was. They all knew he shouldn't have been there, but no one said a word about it.

When he ran out of wine, Brasidas shared his own cup while he called for some more, passing it back and forth between them as they talked. There was an air of camaraderie between the people in attendance that Alexios had only ever really experienced from the outside, when he'd watched military camps before attacks or sat alone by a fire while Spartan soldiers laughed and drank, the night before a battle he'd been hired to fight. He still felt somewhat distanced from it all because he knew that everyone there saw a difference between being from Sparta and being a Spartan; maybe he had his citizenship back, and he'd had it for not quite a year, but that didn't mean he was one of them. Still, it was the closest he could remember coming to being part of a community since Kephallonia. 

The evening wore on, but it didn't seem to wear on him the way some past invitations had. The wine wasn't bad if not excellent and the food was good, then men around him talked and laughed, and he hadn't had to change his tunic to try to fit in with them the way he had at Perikles' symposium. He spoke with a few of the others who, though not entirely sure about his presence there on one hand, were eager to hear tales of the mighty eagle-bearing misthios on the other, and no matter how much he protested that no, really, every misthios he'd ever met probably had just as many tales of slaying giant bears and assassinating politicians, they still wanted to hear. He just didn't tell them the ones about the Cult, like he told Brasidas. He definitely didn't tell them about the cyclops or the minotaur, but he wasn't sure how to explain those to Brasidas, either. At least not without sounding like a lunatic. 

The evening wore on. He'd heard that the syssitia was a civilised thing, and drunkenness wasn't usually encouraged, but clearly some of the men there had had a bit too much. As Alexios sat back warm and comfortable, leaning against the stone wall behind him while Brasidas was across the room in conversation, he saw the way things had started to go for some of them. It made sense, he supposed - he understood the concept of _erastes_ and _eromenos_ even if he hadn't had the experience of it himself, and it was obvious that was the relationship at hand. He tried not to look, though part of him said if they were going to grope each other underneath their tunics in a sort-of-public place then they probably expected some attention. But he was there as Brasidas' guest and he had no desire for that to reflect badly on him. 

Still, even with his eyes averted, he knew what was happening. He'd never seen men - well, he supposed one half of each pair was more _youth_ than _man_ , at least by Spartan standards, or it wouldn't have been allowed - be so public with their affections before. 

"Is it always like this?" Alexios asked, when Brasidas returned to his seat. 

"Like what?"

Alexios gestured at the various couples. "Do they usually...?"

Brasidas followed his gaze and chuckled as he poured more wine. "No, not usually," he said. "You might have inspired them with your tales of daring. Or perhaps the men worry that the great eagle-bearing misthios will tempt their eromenos away." He squeezed Alexios' shoulder. "Or maybe I'm lying and they do this all the time." 

Brasidas' hand didn't leave his shoulder, but that was fine - Alexios didn't want it to.

"Do they all have an eromenos?" Alexios asked. 

"No, not all."

"Do you?"

Brasidas gave him an unreadable look. "No," he replied, at last, and then the look finally registered as confusion - Alexios supposed it had been an odd question, considering the fact they'd known each other for a while, they'd talked quite often, and Brasidas had never mentioned an eromenos. 

"Have you ever?"

"Once."

"Where is he now?"

"If you believe the priests, with Hades." 

"He died?"

"Yes. In an ambush on his way to Achaia." 

"I'm sorry." 

"It was a long time ago. We hadn't known each other long." 

"So you never thought about taking another?"

Brasidas smiled faintly. "Well, considering the war, there's hardly been the time." 

"Couldn't you have made time?"

Brasidas shrugged. "Probably," he admitted. "Other commitments have seemed more important." 

"Like the war?"

"Like whe war." He took a sip of his wine, eyeing Alexios over the cup. "Haven't you had an eromenos?"

Alexios made a sound, half huff and half chuckle. "Have you ever been to Kephallonia?" he asked. 

"Once. We resupplied there on the way to Phokis." 

"Did it seem a lot like Sparta to you?"

"No, but I wouldn't want to assume." 

"Have you seen anywhere worse than Sami?"

Brasidas smiled. "Well, I _am_ a lot older than you. I'm sure I've seen many things you haven't." 

They lapsed back into silence then, comfortable for a start as they glanced around the room and drank, but less so as it began to stretch. Alexios usually wouldn't have minded, or at least probably wouldn't have noticed, except they were sitting so close together and the things the other men were doing were so obvious that he could feel a blush starting to creep into his cheeks. He gripped his cup in one hand and the table with his other.

"If I'd stayed..." he said, then he trailed off. He cleared his throat and glanced at Brasidas then back down at his wine, then back at him again. "Would I have been young enough to be your eromenos?" 

Brasidas took a moment, clenching his jaw tightly as he studied him as if trying to decide what game Alexios was playing, and then if he should play along. 

"Yes," he replied, at last.

"Do you think you'd have chosen me?"

Brasidas looked away and chuckled under his breath. "Son of the Wolf of Sparta, grandson of Leonidas...men would have queued to the peak of Mount Taygetos just for a chance that _you_ would choose _them_." 

"And what about you?" Alexios asked, pushing further, though possibly pushing his luck. "Would you have climbed Mount Taygetos?"

Brasidas paused, his wry smile slowly fading, then he turned back to face him. 

"If I had, would you have had me?" he asked. 

Alexios' chest tightened with the way Brasidas looked at him, so full up with the promise of what might have been if not for the Cult's interference. The breath he took to steady himself utterly failed to steady him at all, though he wasn't exactly surprised by that.

There were things he could have said to laugh it off, if he'd just grinned like he'd told a joke to rival Aristophanes' best. He could have pushed it further and just told him the truth: _I'd have you now, Brasidas_. What he did was glance away at a pair nearby, erastes and eromenos each with a hand on the other's cock, and said, "Would you have taught me that?"

"Would I have needed to?"

Alexios raised his brows. "Remember, I'm a good Spartan boy from the agoge," he said, "not a penniless orphan from Kephallonia. You should teach me everything you know." His gaze shifted. "Would you have taught me that?"

He looked over at another pair; the eromenos was on his knees in front of his erastes, one hand at the base of his cock and his mouth sealed around the tip. 

"I think that's fairly straightforward, isn't it?" Brasidas said. 

"Would you have taught me _that_?"

Brasidas followed his gaze to another pair; the eromenos was bent low over the table and his erastes took him from behind in languid thrusts. Brasidas looked at him. For once, he didn't look amused, or teasing; he looked serious, and maybe slightly unnerved. 

"As many times as it took for you to learn the lesson," he said. 

"I can be a slow learner."

"I can be a terrible teacher." 

The meaning seemed to clear. It seemed like Brasidas was telling him exactly what he wanted, and what he wanted was exactly the same as what Alexios wanted, like they were both imagining Brasidas bending him over the table and fucking him in easy thrusts as they shared a cup of wine. But for all that Alexios was younger than him, he wasn't young enough, not any longer. 

The moment passed. Alexios left the syssitia alone. In the morning, he made his excuses to leave Sparta again while Brasidas attempted to protest, but he was adamant. 

Alexios kissed him goodbye. In the moment, he didn't care about etiquette.

\---

The battle at Pylos wasn't long after that, and when Kassandra wounded Brasidas, when he thought she'd killed him, he could have killed her with his bare fucking hands. If he hadn't been kidnapped, he might have.

Then Brasidas went to Makedonia, and Alexios did not. He heard about the siege at Amphipolis, but there were still things he had to do: he hunted Cultists and he killed Medusa and back in Athens, he lost Phoibe. Maybe it was Phoibe that kept him away from Makedonia for so long, except in fleeting visits to the Spartan camp on his way to somewhere else. He never stayed, just dropped in long enough to see that he was well or bring supplies - he told himself he took those jobs for the drachmae, but the truth was probably something different. 

When Kleon came to Amphipolis and brought the battle with him, Alexios was there because he knew the battle was coming. He'd felt like he could have killed Kassandra with his bare hands at Pylos and when she wounded Brasidas at Amphipolis, he almost did kill her with his bare fucking hands. He had to tear himself away or Brasidas would have died just so he had the time to kill her. 

The night before the battle, he arrived and ducked into Brasidas' tent. Brasidas looked up, smiled tiredly, dismissed his commanders and offered Alexios a cup of wine. 

"I'm glad you're here," Brasidas said, as Alexios took the cup. He squeezed Alexios' shoulder. "Are you just stopping by or will you stay tonight?"

"Well, it's getting late," Alexios replied. "I _could_ sleep in the woods with my horse and an attention-hungry eagle..." Then he sat himself down and let that action finish the thought for him. They talked, like they always did, like they were old friends. And when it was time for them to sleep, Brasidas' bedroll was more than large enough for both of them; they pulled off their armour and though Alexios briefly reconsidered the woods with Phobos and Ikaros, he left them where they were and slept side by side with Brasidas. Alexios fought down the notion that he could have comfortably shared Brasidas' bed every night for the rest of his life, and that this might be exactly that.

At the flap of the tent in the morning, before they left, Brasidas ran the fingers of both hands into Alexios' hair and he kissed him on the mouth for the first time in years. It was out of the blue and so Alexios wasn't prepared; he had no plan so he couldn't help it when he kissed him back, when he pulled him close with one arm around his waist and the other up at the nape of his neck. He kissed him like he'd kiss a lover, not this strange Spartan friend of his. He kissed him like what he wanted to do was bend him over his fucking desk, not help him put his armour on to go out to a battlefield, or at the very least like he wanted to do one thing first and then the other. But when they parted, Brasidas just looked sort of wistful, the backs of his fingers against his lips.

"Come back alive," Brasidas said. 

"Don't I always?" Alexios replied, frowning, because he wasn't sure exactly when he hadn't. 

"So far, yes," Brasidas said. Then he tugged sharply on Alexios' hair. "The men say you fight like Achilles, but even Achilles died."

"I'm not a demigod," Alexios replied. "I'm just a misthios who knows which end of a sword is the sharp one." 

But it turned out that he wasn't the one who needed to be careful. 

\---

Brasidas sat down gingerly at the table in the half light from the burning lamp. 

"Please tell me you didn't sell it," he said. "I've had that armour for years. It's been lucky."

"I didn't sell it," Alexios replied, and he didn't say a thing about how Brasidas had been wounded in his armour several times so maybe he had a strange definition of luck. He was still standing, holding onto the back of the chair he'd been sitting on when Brasidas had arrived. He rubbed his mouth with one hand. "Some of your men were talking about who'd take it if you died. I thought I'd take it for safekeeping." 

"I hear you wore it for the ceremony." 

"Well, the commander said I couldn't wear what I was wearing, so I said I'd wear your armour," he said. "Their mistake was expecting that I'd clean it first." 

"You know, I wish I'd seen that." 

Alexios paused. He frowned. "Well, it's in the next room," he said, still frowning, though he couldn't have said if that was more about the conversation he'd still not managed to extricate himself from, or remembering Brasidas' men at Amphipolis talking about handing out parts of his armour if and when he died, or just the idea of what he was suggesting. He knew what he was suggesting. He just wasn't sure _why_. "I could..."

"I'd like that." 

So, Alexios put on the armour. 

He retrieved it from the room where his bedroll was still rolled out on the floor and he put it on, piece by piece, over his tunic, remembering that day in Amphipolis as he did it. The sun had been blinding through the trees but the air was bitingly cold and he knew half of everyone gathered there was watching him and the others were probably watching Ikaros, shrieking as he circled high overhead. He had his own spear slung over his back but Brasidas' was in his hand. His own clothes were in the farmhouse where Brasidas was resting, and he was wearing Brasidas' instead because he'd been told he wouldn't be permitted to attend in his shabby, mismatched collection of gear. His hair was braided so neatly that he might have been a real Spartan, but the armour gleamed only between patches of dried blood. Brasidas' blood. They'd gathered there to celebrate their commander's victory, and Alexios had set about making them remember what Brasidas had come so close to giving for it. 

He put the armour on again, on top of his tunic though he was wearing nothing underneath. He'd cleaned all the pieces of it since that day, and had it repaired, and Brasidas looked at him from his seat at the table. Alexios wasn't entirely sure what his own face was doing as he looked at him looking at him, but it couldn't have been pleasant.

"What's bothering you?" Brasidas asked. He raised one hand and tugged down the neck of his tunic. He tilted back his head. "Is it this?"

Alexios winced as his gaze was drawn before he could resist it. He'd been trying not to look, but he knew there was a scar running down from underneath the point of Brasidas' chin and over his throat down to his sternum. Kassandra had almost killed him and Alexios could remember pressing his hands over that wound while Brasidas coughed up blood. He remembered stitching it himself when the Spartan soldiers were too afraid of killing him to help. He remembered how his fingers had slipped against Brasidas' blood-slicked skin. It looked like it was healing, still vivid but he thought it would fade at least a little, in time. He just didn't like to be reminded.

"Does it hurt?" he asked. 

"Yes." Brasidas waved him closer, so he went closer. "Give me your hand," he said, so he gave him his hand. Brasidas guided Alexios' palm to his throat and he rested it over the scar. Alexios' pulse throbbed. His stomach clenched. His balls tightened. He hated himself for it.

"You saved my life," Brasidas said. Brasidas' hand rested over his and Alexios could feel the vibrations in his palm when Brasidas spoke. Brasidas put his own hand back down and left Alexios' there at his throat. He tilted his head back as far as it would go and the scar seemed to lengthen, pulling tight. Alexios bit down on his lip. When he moved his hand, it was only to trail his fingertips down that scar, part lost in his regrowing beard, from Brasidas' chin to the neck of his tunic. 

Brasidas, still sitting, raised his hands to Alexios' hips. "You saved my life," he said again. His voice sounded lower. His tone was raw. He squeezed at the tassets that belonged to him and fit Alexios not exactly perfectly. "I've been to places where saving my life would make my life yours."

"I've been to places where saving your life would mean I'm responsible for everything you do till the day you die." 

Brasidas raised his brows. "Which do you believe?" he asked. 

"Neither," Alexios replied. "But if it means you live, I could live with both." He looked away, smiling bitterly. He felt his cheeks flush hot. "I should never have let her hurt you. I should--"

"Alexios, stop." Brasidas tugged at Alexios' belt - his own belt at Alexios' waist - and Alexios, flooded with his own unfamiliar fucking shame, slumped down heavily to his knees on the floor, his head hanging. Brasidas cupped his jaw with both hands. Brasidas tilted his head up. And for a moment Alexios believed he was trying to conjure up some kind of platitude to ease his conscience but just when it seemed he was on the brink of words, Brasidas suddenly kissed him. It didn't feel friendly any more than that last kiss at Amphipolis. The desperate way Alexios returned it was absolutely not how he'd embrace a friend. 

"You should take it off now," Brasidas said, almost against Alexios' neck, and he rapped his knuckles against the borrowed breastplate to illustrate his point. So Alexios stood and he took it off, piece by piece, till he was standing there barefoot in his tunic with the armour strewn across the table. 

"You should take it _all_ off," Brasidas said, and Alexios wondered what he meant because it _was_ all off, greaves and bracers and breastplate and tassets all accounted for on the tabletop. 

"The only thing left is this tunic," he said, pulling at the front of it. Brasidas smiled. Alexios said, "Oh," surprised, and he pulled the tunic off over his head because if that was what Brasidas wanted from him, he was happy to oblige. He could rein himself in and who knew, maybe a confusing friendly Spartan handjob would help him to do that. 

Brasidas had seen him naked before, in the baths, in a river washing blood off after an impromptu fight, but the way he looked at him then made his face feel hot and his hands feel cold. Brasidas leaned down to remove his sandals and then stood and pulled his tunic off. He untied his loincloth and dropped it to the floor; he was already half hard underneath and Alexios hated how nervous he felt when he looked at him, all of him, broad shoulders and lean waist, thick cock and calloused hands, scars, _the_ scar. The one he should have never let happen.

If Brasidas hadn't been so weak, Alexios might have pushed him up against the wall. If he hadn't been injured, he might have pressed his hand to his throat and kissed him till he was breathless. He had no idea what to do that wouldn't make things worse so he stood there, watching Brasidas watch him, until Brasidas sighed and stepped close and pressed his mouth to his again. 

"You're terrible at this," he said, smiling at him fondly as he patted him on one cheek. "You do know I'm just injured, not made of pretty Athenian pottery?" He rubbed at Alexios' bare collarbones with his thumbs. "That said, you do need to lay me down before I fall down."

Alexios hadn't cleared away his bedroll in the room next door, so that's where he took him. He helped him down onto his back and then knelt on the floor next to him, sitting on his heels as Brasidas tucked one arm up under his head and wrapped his other hand around his own half-hard cock. Alexios still had no idea what to do, at least not until his gaze strayed down to what Brasidas' hand was doing. Then he knew, with a shiver of excitement that went right down to his own cock. As Brasidas watched, he reached for a small jar of oil; he slicked his own palm and the length of his fingers and then he stroked Brasidas' cock with it. He moaned under his breath. Alexios couldn't say he didn't like that. 

Brasidas probably thought that was his plan, but it wasn't. Alexios stopped, added a little more oil, then he straddled Brasidas' waist; he couldn't quite look at him as he pressed the slick length of Brasidas' cock between his cheeks and shifted to rub him against his hole, from base to tip and back again. He pressed the tip there next, thick and blunt against the tight muscle, as he thought about all the times he'd daydreamed about doing exactly that. There were rules, not that he'd ever really understood them because he'd never stayed in Sparta long enough, but fuck the rules. If he'd still been just some second-rate broke mercenary from Kephallonia pretending he'd never had a family, no one would've cared if twenty men had fucked him. 

He spread his knees wider. He pushed down and he felt the thick tip of Brasidas' cock push up tighter against him as he used one hand to keep him there in place. He took a breath and as he exhaled, slowly, he sank down lower and felt Brasidas start to push inside him. His breath hitched and he bared his teeth and squeezed tight at his own thighs as he kept going, lower, lower, till his arse was stretched hot and tight around Brasidas' considerable erection. On Kephallonia, he'd never have been important enough to be anyone's eromenos, even if there'd been anyone there important enough to have one. The men he'd fooled around with hadn't cared about any of that - they'd just wanted the big strong mercenary to fuck them. Now he was in Sparta, and he was old enough that he should have only been an erastes with an eromenos of his own. He'd done it in an inn once or twice, drunk and laughing, bent over a table with a cup of wine still in his hand, spilling it all over. It hadn't been like this, all his muscles tense and Brasidas' hot hands at his waist. 

"Look at me," Brasidas said, his voice high and strained, so Alexios looked at him and as he did, Brasidas rolled his hips and gripped his waist and pushed up deeper into him. Alexios groaned as it sent a shiver up his spine and a flush of heat straight through his cock. Brasidas grinned and Alexios gave a breathless chuckle, then Brasidas rolled his hips again. 

"Touch yourself," Brasidas said, so Alexios touched himself. He spread one hand at Brasidas' taut abdomen to steady himself and then he used the other to squeeze his balls then rub behind them, firmly, till he groaned again. He moved that hand behind him next, ran it down the cleft of his arse to the tight rim of his arsehole and he rubbed there, at the place where Brasidas penetrated him, till his stomach felt tight and his balls felt heavy and his skin felt hot and he came, suddenly, groaning, all over Brasidas' chest. He ran his fingertips through it, and he reached back again, pushed up, so Brasidas' cock pulled out; when he pushed him back inside, Brasidas' cock was slick with Alexios' come. 

He rode him slowly after that, his cock still hard, impossibly hard except he supposed he'd been finding more and more impossible things were possible for him these days. Brasidas wrapped his hand around him and Alexios came again, feeling himself squeeze tight around the length of Brasidas' cock inside him. Brasidas stroked him and he came _again_ , clenching his teeth and gripping tight at his own thighs. And when Brasidas hissed in a breath and bucked and came inside him, Alexios came, too, almost seeing stars till he had nothing left to give. He just sat there, breathless and shaky and reeling, with Brasidas still pushed in deep. 

"I'll have to get injured more often if this is the result," Brasidas said, and maybe Alexios was spent, almost completely, but a surge of something made him spread one hand over the scar at Brasidas' sternum. 

"That's not funny."

"It wasn't meant to be."

He moved. Weak as he was after everything they'd just done, he pushed himself off, pushed himself up and walked away a few steps, while he heard Brasidas moving behind him. It was ridiculous; he'd started the evening thinking Brasidas might not forgive him, or that he might try to make him feel better about his failure to protect him from Kassandra, and now here Alexios was at the end of his tether. Not being there for him at Pylos was bad enough but Amphipolis was entirely his fault and Brasidas had lived, yes, but this was too much. Suddenly, or maybe not suddenly at all, it was far too much and not enough at all.

"I can't keep doing this," Alexios said, at least partially surprised he'd said it. 

"Keep doing what?"

He turned. He gestured tensely in the air between the two of them. " _This_."

"Is this something I did?"

"No. It's..." Alexios rubbed his eyes. "It's not your fault. Honestly, I just want more than this." 

"You want a wife? A family?" 

Alexios frowned. "No, that's not what I meant. I want more. I don't want _this_."

Brasidas pulled himself up to his feet, albeit slowly and awkwardly and definitely not quite steadily. "What more do you think I have to give?" he asked. He pressed his teeth together, grimacing. "I'm Spartan. I have obligations. If you want to find someone to settle down with..."

"Settle down?"

"I understand. I know you've had other lovers. Perhaps one of them can give you what you want."

" _Other lovers_?"

"The flirtatious Athenian. The young Spartan general." He took a breath and he leaned against the nearest wall as Alexios attempted to sort through what he was saying. "I know I'm not as young as I used to be and I don't believe I've ever known how to flirt like an Athenian. I..." He gestured at the scar at his throat. He winced and took a breath and paused; he swallowed and then nodded, resolute. His mouth twisted wryly. 

"You're the most infuriating man I've ever met," he said. "I hope you meet someone, Alexios, and I hope he makes you very happy. I'm sorry I can't give you what you want." 

Brasidas pushed away from the wall and left the room. All Alexios could do was sit back and let him go, sick to his stomach that it had come to this. 

But Brasidas had said it himself: he was Spartan. What Alexios wanted from him was impossible.

\---

He should have left Sparta after that. 

He should have left Lakonia completely. His _mater_ and Kassandra might have been able to use his help on Naxos, or maybe it was time to try again with Stentor in Makedonia now their _pater_ might mediate, but he didn't leave. He stayed in Sparta, taking work on occasion more to keep himself busy than because he needed the drachmae, because he hadn't needed the drachmae for quite some time. He delivered things, delivered messages, killed wolves that were eating farmers' goats. He escorted citizens who were scared of bandits on the roads around hills where bears roamed, and he taught a farmers' daughters how to use a bow. 

He saw Brasidas every few days, across squares, between buildings, heading to or from the training grounds. Brasidas raised a hand in cordial acknowledgement and Alexios usually tried to do the same, but they didn't speak. He missed him fucking bitterly. Honestly, he sometimes wasn't sure if he was better off that way or if he should have just kept his mouth firmly shut. After all, maybe something was better than nothing; maybe _friends_ could have been enough if he'd just tried a little harder. The only real comfort he could take was from seeing Brasidas' condition improving each time they didn't quite meet. Soon, he'd be his old self again. Alexios was glad for that.

In time, Brasidas was stationed away from Sparta; Alexios heard he was leaving, so he left before that. He visited Naxos and picked up his sister and their _mater_ and took them with him to Amphipolis to visit _pater_ and Stentor. Myrrine, ex-pirate as she was, argued good-naturedly with Barnabas over his position relative to the wind, and Kassandra sat sullenly on the deck, sharpening her sword till it was almost in danger of wasting away to nothing. She was his sister and he loved her, but sometimes when he looked at her he saw Brasidas' spear in her hand and Brasidas' blood on his skin. Sometimes, he remembered wondering if he'd done the right thing by letting her live. Sometimes he wondered if he would have been able to walk away from her if the point of the spear had struck just a little more cleanly. He looked at her, on the deck or leaning at the rail, as they hunted together when they reached Makedonia, as they made their way past the old battlefield that was overgrown by then to the point where a farmer was using it to graze his goats, and he wondered if he would have felt quite so forgiving if Brasidas had died. 

He left his family there together and he went away alone, except if he counted the crew of the _Adrestia_. He fucked two brothers in Korinthia, though he knew even at the time that it was a truly terrible idea. He fucked a man and his two friends at a drunken party on Lemnos, and an enthusiastic blacksmith in Lokris because why the fuck not do it? Then he ran into Brasidas back in Korinth again. Anthousa's problem was the Followers of Ares this time, not the Monger, but that didn't make her any less irate about it. 

When Anthousa heard he was in town and invited him to the meeting, Alexios almost said no. But there he was, four hours later, strolling into her home in a shiny but used set of Spartan armour. Brasidas, for his part, was already there. 

"We could just kill them all," Alexios suggested. 

"They would only send more men," Anthousa replied.

"Then we should send a message."

"Hopefully not a message that says _send more men_."

"I agree with Alexios."

"You do?" Anthousa said. 

"We'll go alone."

" _I'll_ go alone."

"I'll go with you."

"I'll--"

"You'll _both_ go. Since when are Spartan men such children?"

So, they went down into the cave to kill the Followers of Ares who'd been abducting Anthousa's hetaerae and recruiting desperate Korinthian men. It might have been simpler if Alexios had gone alone but they went together despite that, and despite his better judgement; they went in loud and drew the fanatics to them, which wouldn't have been Alexios' first choice had he not had a fighter he could rely on with him. They fought back to back and it was exhilarating, it was just like the first time, how easily they moved, how they seemed to know exactly what came next, like choreography. Brasidas' injury hadn't left him with any long-term after-effects at all, it seemed, except for the scar. He was older and had more marks on him, but he was no less effective than he'd ever been. He was every inch the man he'd met there in that city all those years ago.

And when it was done and all the fanatics were lying dead on the cave floor, they turned to each other, still breathless in the torchlight. Alexios knew he'd missed this almost as much as he'd missed the man himself. And the way they'd fought, moved around each other, the precision and the bone-jarring force, Alexios could see Brasidas was just as turned on by it as he was. His desire was so fucking overwhelming that when they kissed, it was like they were still fighting, pulling at each other's hair, pulling at each other's clothes. Brasidas bit Alexios' lip almost hard enough to draw blood but all that did was make him growl against his mouth then move, raking Brasidas' neck with his teeth, sucking, biting, marking his skin. He dropped onto his knees on the ground and he tugged at the tassets at Brasidas' waist, yanked at his loincloth, got pissed off when it wouldn't budge and grabbed his spear to do the job for him. He sliced through the cloth, too hurried, and nicked the skin of Brasidas' thigh - he licked there, sucked there, tasting metal in his blood, as he took Brasidas' cock in his hand and jerked him not quite roughly. Then he put his mouth on him. It had never been like this, and he'd always wished it could be.

He sealed his mouth over the tip of Brasidas' cock and he swirled his tongue against it, hotly, firmly, teasing at the tip just for a second before he groaned and squeezed his own cock over the fabric of his loincloth. He took him deeper. He felt Brasidas' fingers tangle in his hair, and he bobbed his head, dragged the flat of his tongue down the long, thick vein that practically throbbed with it, and Brasidas groaned, low and raw and desperate, a way he'd never heard him sound. His nails raked Alexios' scalp and his neck and he gripped his shoulders over his armour as his hips bucked against his mouth and Alexios just held the tunic and tassets out of the way as he wrested his own cock free of his loincloth to jerk it roughly. 

Brasidas came in his mouth, suddenly, no warning, with a surprised kind of groan cut off somewhere in his throat, and Alexios swallowed hard, coughed, pulled back and fuck, he spat the rest into his hand to make it easier to stroke himself. He pressed his mouth to the base of Brasidas' softening cock, screwed his eyes shut and stroked harder, faster, his cheeks blazing because what the fuck was he doing? All he wanted was Brasidas to want him like that, to feel that attraction and not just want some kind of friendly mutual physical pleasure heightened by a fight. He wanted him to want _him_ , selfish as he supposed that was. 

He came over his hand, over the floor, and took a shaky breath against Brasidas' abdomen. Then he sat back and he considered looking up but instead he just dropped Brasidas' clothes back into place, took a second to rearrange his own loincloth, then stood and turned away to retrieve his weapons. 

"We should get back to Anthousa," Alexios said, as he started back toward the mouth of the cave. Brasidas said nothing in response, but he could hear his footsteps following. 

They returned to Anthousa and stood side by side in front of her as they reported their success. There were bruises at Brasidas' neck and thighs and the inside of one wrist where Alexios' mouth had been. Alexios knew his own lips must have been utterly obvious and Brasidas' loincloth likely hadn't been salvageable so he'd be bare under his tunic underneath his armour. He wanted to push Brasidas up against Anthousa's desk, make him hop up onto the edge and wrap his legs around his waist. He wanted to press his mouth to the crook of Brasidas' neck and wrap his arms over his back, and hang on tight. Instead, he took his payment, nodded to Anthousa, then walked away. Brasidas left for the Spartan camp and Alexios left, too, not entirely sure where he intended to go. 

He walked around the city, under the stars past dusk. He climbed up to the roof of the temple of Aphrodite and he sat at the edge, dangling his legs, looking out over Korinth. He didn't feel much like going back to Sparta, or like dropping by Amphipolis, or visiting Xenia and her pirates on Keos, or dropping in on Sophokles or Alkibiades. He thought about going to Thera where he could be alone. He thought about going to Kos to check on Markos, or back to Kephallonia; he wondered what his life would have been like if he'd never left, if Phoibe would have lived, if he'd still have been living in the same sad house beating up the same thugs. He thought he might go farther - Persia, maybe, or Egypt wasn't so far away. Maybe his past couldn't follow him there. Maybe had happened at Amphipolis wouldn't. 

He remembered the day of the battle as he sat there, and what had happened to Brasidas. He remembered cutting off his pursuit to save his life, which should have never been in danger in the first place, and letting Kassandra go. He hadn't killed her, but he did kill Kleon; he'd found him the next day, trying to flee, and he'd drowned him in the surf and left him for Poseidon. It had felt like far better than he deserved. 

They'd found a farm a short distance from the battlefield where they took Brasidas. The soldiers said it was abandoned when they found it, probably on account of the battle, but Alexios never really knew if that was true or if they'd just run the farmer out - he didn't ask, given that wasn't exactly his priority. Once he'd stopped the bleeding and dressed the wound as best he could, he and Brasidas' second in command sat up through the night to see if he'd live. They were neither of them sure he would. 

The next day, after he'd dispatched Kleon, Alexios bribed the best healer in the region to come and tend to his wounded friend - he gave her enough drachmae to start her own clinic in Amphipolis and promised more in the hope she'd treat him well. He could remember a time when he'd barely had two coins to rub together, let alone enough to throw at a problem and make it go away, but he couldn't regret that that was what he did even if it didn't seem to be a very Spartan solution. He hadn't been thinking like a Spartan, and he wasn't sure he ever had. 

Over the days that followed, it had turned out Brasidas' second was a good man, relatively inexperienced but willing to listen to ideas. It was clear that Brasidas trusted them both and though Alexios hated it, because the only place he had any interest in being was at Brasidas' bedside, he knew he couldn't let the Athenians take Amphipolis. In the daytime, he helped rout the remaining Athenian force from the area, then he returned to the far and to the patient within. He slept on his bedroll just across the room so that as he slept he could hear Brasidas breathing, and know he was alive. 

Sometimes he went back out again to find herbs the healer needed, or he hunted so they'd all have fresh meat, but he stayed close. Even though he knew what some of the men thought of him - just a misthios, honourless, there for the drachmae - he stayed close. He didn't bother to explain that it was _his_ drachmae they were living on, not Sparta's, and he stayed because every time he thought of leaving, he also thought of seasons passing, years passing, and how one day he'd hear that Brasidas had died at Amphipolis. He thought about the sting of that, and he knew he didn't want to live with it. Better he be there, just in case. Better he be there to know he'd done everything he could. 

But the day the healer told him Brasidas would live, she was sure of it, that there was no longer any doubt in her mind and all he needed was time to mend, they moved Brasidas into the city and Alexios left. 

"There he goes," he heard a soldier mutter as he left the farm. "I bet the general finally woke up long enough to pay him." 

He paused for a second, anger rising up like bile in his throat, but then he continued on his way. He'd understood it was better for them to believe he was a hired hand than Brasidas' friend, no matter who his family was, no matter that he was technically also Spartan, recognised in law. He didn't tell them that he'd left a chest of drachmae in the farmhouse or that he'd stayed because he'd needed to know, if Brasidas died, that he'd have coins to pay the ferryman. He'd just whistled for Phobos and ridden away. Brasidas was alive because of him, but he'd only ever been in danger because Alexios had failed to stop Kassandra.

He watched the sunrise from the temple roof and then he climbed back down again, intending to leave though he wasn't sure where he'd go - maybe it was time to visit Phoibe's grave in Athens, or go back to Kephallonia, or find out if Markos had stayed in his vineyard on Kos. First, though, he went into the temple; maybe he wasn't sure if he believed in the gods but he thought an offering to Aphrodite couldn't hurt things, fucked up beyond belief as they were. But when he got inside, Brasidas was there. Before he could turn and walk away, he was spotted. 

"I didn't think you were the Aphrodite type," Alexios said, in lieu of a greeting, no _chaire_ since he knew they were long past that.

Brasidas smiled wryly. "I was asking her for a favour," he replied. "This wasn't how I expected her to respond." He paced away, his back to Alexios just briefly before he turned and leaned back against the temple wall. "Why are _you_ here?" 

"The same." 

He clenched and unclenched his fists, slowly, trying to ground himself as Brasidas rested his head back against the wall. The scar at his throat was obvious; he'd never tried to hide it like some people would have, and though Alexios didn't want to see it, he had to respect the choice. He wasn't vain. He'd made it part of who he was.

"I should go," Alexios said, and he turned for the exit. 

"Can we at least try to be friends?"

Alexios stopped. He frowned. He stalked back in, tense. "Being friends was the problem," he said, and he sat down heavily by the altar, elbows to his knees. He ran his hands over his hair. "You're a good friend, and I'll miss that. But I can't pretend that's all I want." He gave his hair a sharp tug then he rubbed his eyes, hard, with the heels of his hands, till he saw starts for a moment. He felt tired, and so many other things he wasn't sure if he even knew how to name them, all mixed up inside him like a witch's potion. "I don't want a couple of nights every couple of years. I tried to follow your example, Brasidas, but I can't be that kind of friend."

Brasidas frowned at him. He looked at him steadily, leaning his head away from the wall, frowning at him like what he'd just said made no sense at all, and all Alexios wanted to do was walk out and go lose himself somewhere they'd never even heard of Sparta, let alone Brasidas. But then Brasidas cleared his throat. 

"Alexios, was there ever a time when you believed we were more than friends?" he asked. 

"I wanted that, but..." Alexios shrugged. "Maybe the line got blurred but it was there." 

"What if I told you that by Spartan standards, what we were sometimes was lovers?"

"I don't understand."

"I..." Brasidas paused, frowning again, like he was struggling to gather his thoughts. Then he sighed out a breath and pulled himself up tall. "I know you were born Spartan, but sometimes I forget how long you were away. You must have forgotten a lot of what you knew about life in Lakonia. There must be a lot you were never taught." 

He moved closer. He set his hands on Alexios' shoulders. 

"Alexios, I violated every Spartan rule about relations between men every time you and I..." His face wrinkled, part way between a frown and a wince, as he trailed off. "I assumed you knew that. I assumed you knew what that meant. What it could have meant if anyone found out." He laughed, sounding incredulous. "I thought that just wasn't enough for you." 

"But Barnabas said--"

Brasidas cut him off with a frustrated groan as he took a step back and dropped his head into his hands. He looked at him between his fingers then raked his face with them and he pulled on his beard and he held his head and he looked away, up at the temple roof, the walls, the pillars, anywhere but at him until he'd completed two full turns with his fingers tight in his own hair. 

"You should have asked Herodotos," he said. " _Years_ , Alexios. _Ten years_. By Zeus, I wish you'd asked Herodotos."

And so he finally understood. 

He could've said _I've been an idiot_ , apologised and probably not stopped for years. What he did instead was bring his hands up to Brasidas' jaw and make him look at him before he pressed his mouth to his. He kissed him, slowly, hotly, a little exasperatedly, like maybe he'd've liked to have done not so very far away all those years ago except with ten long years of that desire behind it. It was a kiss that Brasidas returned, earnestly, as he wrapped his arms around him and held on tight.

Not so long ago, Alexios had been considering Egypt or Rome, Persia, anywhere but Greece. He could take the _Adrestia_ anywhere. Brasidas, on the other hand, probably had orders to march home to Sparta. 

He pulled back, just far enough that he could look at him. Brasidas' face was so familiar, scars and all, and he ran the pad of his thumb down the scar at his throat. Brasidas smiled, so Alexios leaned in and pressed his mouth to it.

Soon, Brasidas would leave for home, just like he had the last time they were in Korinth. 

This time, Alexios would go with him.


End file.
